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Today is double date day. Later I’ll be fine-dining with Tristan but first I have a far less conventional date scenario with Ben.

‘He’s taking you to a cemetery?’ May scoffs. ‘Are you about to discover his goth alter ego?’

‘No,’ I tut. ‘He’s just interested in architecture.’

‘Ohh!’ May nods as she watches me try to find a top to go with my black skinny jeans. ‘If only we lived in a city that had architecturally interesting buildings which didn’t come with rotting corpses.’

‘Well, I think it’s cool,’ I say as I consider my loose-knit star jumper.

‘It’s a no to that shapeless item.’ May swipes it out of my hands. ‘I do, however, still have my skeleton bodysuit from Halloween if you want to borrow it? Or maybe we should drape you in Miss Havisham lace and have you carry a dried flower bouquet that crumbles a little every step you take . . .’

‘I don’t have time for your mockery, May,’ I sigh. ‘I have to leave in five minutes.’

‘All right, move over and let the professional handle this!’ She flips through the hangers, pausing by a cream ribbed polo neck and then reaching for my teal cashmere jumper.

I’ve had it for years but it’s still a favourite – the little puffs at the shoulders help create the illusion of a waist and it clings to my boobs but not my stomach.

I drop my dressing gown.

May rolls her eyes. ‘You really need to consider investing in some new underwear, especially now you’re getting back in the game.’

‘It’s not pretty but it does the job,’ I shrug as I adjust my straps which, admittedly, are quite wide.

‘Does it?’ May’s nose wrinkles. ‘I know your boobs ask a lot of a bra but I think this wartime style could set you back a step or two in the bedroom.’

‘These are first dates,’ I remind her as I pull on my sweater. ‘I promise I’ll have something presentable by date two.’

‘I’m going to hold you to that. Allow me.’ She pins a vintage brooch with milky aqua stones just below my right collarbone. ‘And switch to the suede pumps. You’ll be able to get away quicker if you hear groans coming from one of the tombs.’

I roll my eyes.

‘Now, for your evening look . . .’

‘Oh, I can figure that out when I get back,’ I dismiss her concern. I really need to get going.

‘Last-minute outfit selection never ends well,’ May tuts. ‘This restaurant is in Mayfair?’

‘Yes. I’m hoping it’s not too fancy.’

‘It will be,’ she says, pulling out my rose-gold shimmery top. ‘And I know you hate to wear heels but . . .’ Her face puckers. ‘Amy! These are still muddy from the wedding!’

‘You say that like it was a year ago!’ I protest. ‘Who has time to clean their shoes?’

‘I’ll sort it and leave them out for you.’

I smile. ‘You’re the best!’ I give her an extra squeeze knowing that she will pick out a pair of earrings, and there may even be a small getting-ready snack on the side when I come home . . .

*

It’s a curious thing, heading to a cemetery on a day when I feel so glad to be alive. Ben and I have exchanged a few cute texts since the photo exhibition but they have been more friendly than flirty so I don’t feel any undue pressure to wow him, which makes a pleasant change. Plus, he’s seen me sans make-up, which shouldn’t be a big deal but is for someone like me who only really feels confident under a layer of honey-beige foundation.

As I step off the bus, the sun breaks out from behind the grey bulk of cloud to reinforce my optimism. Highgate may be the more obvious choice for a cemetery stroll – the last resting place for the likes of Karl Marx and George Eliot – but Ben has chosen lesser-known Abney Park in Stoke Newington.

The entrance has four grandly angular pillars linked by black wrought-iron gates. I give a little shiver as I observe a couple of less-than-savoury characters disappearing into the greenery on the other side. If Ben doesn’t turn up, would I venture in alone? I’m not sure that I would. I picture myself tripping on the uneven path as assorted tangled roots and vines lock around my limbs, dragging me from view and claiming me as their own . . .

‘Amy!’

‘Ben!’ I jump, glad to have the reassurance of a hug to settle me down, albeit a rather awkward, lightweight affair.

‘Good to see you!’

He’s in jeans and a loose-knit star jumper – I knew I should’ve worn mine.

‘Shall we?’

The second we step through the gates I can see the appeal – there’s a forgotten-world feel to this place: overgrown and crumbling, the headstones sit off-kilter, almost like the ground has grumbled and groaned and tried to turn over to get more comfortable. And then I notice that each grave seems to be interspersed with a different plant or bush or tree.

‘I feel like I’m seeing every possible leaf pattern, in every possible hue of green.’

‘Funny you should say that,’ Ben smiles. ‘The park was originally laid out as an arboretum with the trees planted in alphabetical order around the perimeter.’

‘Really? What a concept!’

‘It fell into disrepair in the 1970s which is why it now has this unkempt look – but that’s all the better for the bees.’

Don’t you just love a man who cares about the bees?

‘I read that this is one of the “Magnificent Seven” cemeteries from the Victorian era?’ I try to sound casual as I throw out the one piece of knowledge I gleaned en route.

He nods. ‘For me, it’s the coolest because this is where the dissenters and non-conformists were buried – those who refused to align themselves with a particular religion. Plus, Amy Winehouse filmed the video for “Back to Black” here.’ He gives me a sideways glance and sings ‘Amy, Amy, Amy’ giving me a teasing look.

My heart does a loop-the-loop.

‘But mostly I just like how I feel when I’m here . . .’

I follow him in something of a trance. ‘And how do you feel?’

He lets his hand trail along the long grasses. ‘Suspended in time. Peaceful. Thankful. It helps me let go of the things that don’t matter.’

‘I can see that,’ I say.

‘When life gets overly complicated, this serves as a reminder that we can always step off the conveyor belt, live a simpler existence, and probably be more content.’

I sigh. ‘I should definitely try to get out in nature more. If I go to the parks near me, there are just so many people having picnics, playing frisbee, chasing toddlers, I barely even notice the greenery. But here . . .’ I take in the meandering paths, spiky branches and dangling vines. ‘There’s a sense of intrigue – you can’t help wonder what’s around the next corner.’

He nods his agreement. ‘I’m always discovering a new trail or secret nook – there’s over thirty acres to explore . . .’

I make a mental note to return with Gareth so he can put a name to the myriad flora and fauna. Words like acacia and acanthus leaf are so soothing to my ear. One day I’ll record him reading the index from a botany book and make it into a sleep meditation.

‘Do you know the two most popular flowers for funerals are carnations and white stargazer lilies?’ I venture.

‘I did not know that,’ Ben replies, repeating ‘stargazer’ with a wistful breath. ‘That seems apt.’

No doubt Gareth would have brought a few stems to lay beside the graves. I wish I had thought about doing that. It feels a little voyeuristic to come empty-handed.

‘So how long have you been taking walks in cemeteries?’ I ask, hoping my question doesn’t come off too ‘Do you come here often?’

He stops to think. ‘Well, I suppose it started when my grandmother died, so about six years now. That was my first time in a churchyard and I was surprised to find myself feeling something other than sad.’

I tilt my head. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, this is going to sound weird but I remember thinking, She’s not alone in this. Look at all these people who have gone before her, all these people who surround her. There are way more people who have crossed over than there are still living on the planet. It helped me see this wasn’t just a loss or an ending, it was a rite of passage. You have to respect the cycles of life.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘You don’t agree?’

‘No, it’s just . . .’ I trail off. ‘Sometimes you lose people too soon.’

‘Well, that’s true. And that’s very different.’ He eyes me and then asks gently, ‘Did you lose someone?’

I look away. ‘I’m more in the process of losing . . .’ I begin, surprised to hear myself telling him about my mum’s dementia. I haven’t even told my work colleagues. ‘It’s made me hyper aware of the little time I have left with her. You know, as herself.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispers in sympathy. ‘My grandmother had dementia. I know how it feels to miss someone when they are stood right in front of you.’

I stare back at him. It’s rare for me to talk with someone who understands.

‘I can’t imagine what it would be like to have my mum be that way . . . That’s got to be hard.’

‘It is,’ I say, fearing I may have brought the vibe too far down. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I mentioned it. I can’t even bear to think about it. But then again, I’m always thinking about it . . .’

He tilts his head. ‘I know this is easier said than done but you don’t want to be conjuring the loss over and over before it even happens.’

‘I know. But I honestly don’t know how to break the cycle.’

He looks around him, as if searching for answers in the moss-smudged inscriptions. ‘I’m not saying any of this will work or be easy but instead of saying you are losing her you could say you are celebrating her, or making the most of her or grateful for her – all of which are equally true.’

I nod back at him.

‘We have to find the beauty to balance out the despair. Like now, you can feel that pain but you can also look around and find some wonder too, right?’

At his invitation I scan the scene, choosing to point out the way the gold leaf lettering shines so brightly on a dull grey headstone, even though it dates back to 1890.

‘There you go!’ he encourages. ‘You know what my grandfather always says? “Some days there won’t be a song in your heart. Sing anyway.” ’

My heart pangs. I feel so touched by his empathy. It’s funny how a relative stranger can say a few words and bring about such a keen sense of comfort and relief.

‘Thank you,’ I sigh, misty-eyed.

‘So, do you want to see a fallen angel?’ he asks.

‘Of course,’ I cheer, glad to move on.

He takes me to the tomb where a sculpted, winged figure has toppled into the undergrowth, cheek to the earth. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ he says, laying a gentle hand on her head.

‘She is,’ I sigh, inhaling the woodsy scent as a breeze stirs the spirits around us.

It’s easy to picture Ben in a billowing shirt, writing poetry with a quill pen. He seems a romantic soul, not quite of the modern world and thus not bound by its rules.

‘All I ask when I go is that I leave behind one piece of work that is meaningful – I don’t mind if I spend half my life schlepping drink trays trying to figure out what that is.’

In a society filled with daily goal-setting and target-hitting, I find his long-game perspective refreshing. As he ambles on through a leafy archway, I find myself raising my phone camera, eager to memorialise this sentiment. And then I crouch beside the fallen angel, taking a close-up of her face nestled on a pillow of tiny white flowers. I smile as a little chiffchaff bird hops onto the headstone and poses perkily for me, giving me an assortment of angles and sweetly squeaky chirps.

When I stand upright again, Ben is nowhere to be seen.

‘Hello?’ I call. ‘Ben, are you there?’

How far would he have gone on without me? He could be chatting away presuming I’m right behind him and then not be able to retrace his steps because there are too many forks in the path. I experience a twang of nerves.

‘Ben?’ I hurry what I hope is after him, passing a couple who probably think I’m calling for my dog. ‘Ben?’

I round a corner, momentarily distracted by a set of sculptures on plinths, putting me in mind of a band rising up from the stage at an arena concert. And then I jump out of my skin as I feel a prickling-tickle on my neck.

I turn around to find Ben with a fern in his hand. ‘Did you see this headstone for the founder of the Salvation Army?’

I heave a sigh of relief.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, suddenly concerned.

‘I am now,’ I puff, waiting for the pounding in my chest to subside. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry! Do you want to sit down for a moment?’

I nod gratefully and then blink in disbelief.

The setting he conjures couldn’t be more enchanting – a double set of stone steps strewn with pink blossom petals.

‘One staircase each?’ I suggest and we scamper up in unison, sending the petals a-fluttering. If I twirled around, my outfit would become a chiffon dress and we’d break into a wafty-dreamy waltz before reclining on the balustrade, gazing breathlessly at each other.

‘You wouldn’t expect to find a terrace here,’ I muse as we rest upon the low wall. ‘Ooh, look!’

A hush descends as we track the air dance of a pale blue butterfly. When it finally moves on, Ben seems content to relax and let his thoughts drift, but I continue to take pictures, even though my battery is now on 5 per cent. I discreetly switch to video as I zoom in on him – now reclining, gazing skyward, one hand on his chest, the other twisting his hair.

‘What are you thinking about?’ I ask.

He turns to the camera, giving it the sexiest look ever and murmurs, ‘Cake.’

‘Really?’ I sigh.

‘I know the perfect place to take you.’

At which point he jumps up and grabs my hand.

I’m thrilled and can’t wait to see what his idea of the perfect place for me would be . . .

‘This way!’ He ducks under a low canopy of leaves and as we emerge, an ominous swathe of grey blocks the sun and the air turns chilly.

‘Oh no, rain!’ I whimper as it starts to mist and then smatter.

He looks at me with curiosity, perhaps wondering how a light shower could ever be a surprise in England.

‘It’s just the hair situation,’ I explain, in case every woman he has ever met has been a festival freebird.

‘I know, nightmare!’ He scrumples his own mop until it stands askew in seven different directions but only serves to make him look more handsome.

‘Can you do mine like that?’ I ask.

‘Seriously?’ He falters.

‘Why not?’ I grin, feeling ridiculously daring.

I think my eyes close for a second as he pushes his hands through my hair, swirling and backcombing with his fingertips. This is the most intimate we’ve been since the wedding. I wish I knew how heated things got in the kitchen that night. I also wish he would kiss me right now. He is arranging a few straggles around my face and when our eyes meet it feels as if he’s smiling right into my soul. My heart pounds in anticipation, but then an overhanging tree branch drops a big wet dollop on my nose and startles us apart.

‘Come on,’ he laughs. ‘Let’s make a run for it!’